


anything, everything, everything

by RocioWrites



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Aziraphale Has a Penis (Good Omens), Crowley Has a Penis (Good Omens), Other, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-02
Updated: 2020-05-02
Packaged: 2021-02-23 05:36:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23973139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RocioWrites/pseuds/RocioWrites
Summary: “I’ve loved you from the very beginning. I’m in love with you.”Aziraphale catches him into his arm, warm chest and thick arms all around. Crowley could cry.“My dear, my love,my Crowley. I love you too, I am in love with you, yes.”
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 64





	anything, everything, everything

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve been inspired by Good Omens (TV Show), the porny fanfictions I’ve been reading and Aqua’s Barbie Girl. An epic combination, no, I do not take criticism.
> 
> I want you all to know that I almost titled this fic Demon Boy.
> 
> And I actually can’t believe how serious and heartfelt this turned out.

**Imagination, life is your creation**

He got complacent, of course he did. Six thousand years of knowing each other, and every little step forward has been effortless; of course this new normalcy comes as easily as everything else before now. The open friendship, the little touches, the silly banter wherever everyone can hear. It’s all simple and quite smooth, as if they’ve never supposed to be sworn hereditary enemies. An angel and a demon freely fraternizing because there’s no one to respond to now, no Head Offices, no snooping co-workers, no duty or loyalty to places where they don’t belong.

They belong here, in each other’s company. In Earth, with humans. They’ve gone native, wasn’t that what they said? They’re right. Crowley and Aziraphale wanted to save Earth for this humanity they’re so fond of, for this companionship they’ve built with each other. A side only for the two of them.

And that’s why he grew complacent, drinking in every new tiny intimacy between them, _enjoying_. It started slow, calmly, just after the Apocalypse That Wasn’t or maybe after their trials in Heaven and Hell. It was like a snowball, growing and growing until it was doomed to crash into Crowley overwhelmingly. It was like a soft lullaby, growing in intensity without neither of them noticing, until now, and now it’s the only thing Crowley listens to in a world full of noises.

Now this is the new normal, their new life. Why would Crowley try to change any of it? Now that it’s so easy to lean into Aziraphale and smell his cologne without repercussions; now that it’s an everyday occurrence to simply hold hands and chat and tease each other, having the privilege of those cheeky smiles.

Yes, Crowley has imagination, more than any other creature in existence if he says so. And yet, he can’t imagine _more_. He can’t allow himself to imagine more, that’s how it is with them. He got complacent because this is more than he originally thought was even possible with his angel. Being friends, being best friends, basically living together days at a time in the bookshop and whole weekends in his Mayfair flat. How can he want more, imagine more, when everything Aziraphale has given him so far is a privilege in and of itself? This life, this relationship, this love is more than Crowley deserves, more than he could ever imagine for a low demon like himself.

He’s more than complacent, he’s _grateful_. He could go on his knees and worship every little shift in Aziraphale’s demeanour, every word and every movement, every earthly pleasure the angel delights on. He wants nothing more than to indulge him, and if that means Crowley must restrain himself and force those thoughts of romantic love and passionate lust, those ultimately human aspirations, then so be it. He’ll deal.

Crowley’s imagination shouldn’t run rampage, wild and careless. This world they’ve created for themselves, free of chains from Up There or Down Below, is exactly as it should be, as Aziraphale wants it to be.

Or so he thought.

  
  


**You can touch, you can play, if you say, “I’m always yours.”**

Their new life settles itself above them like a cosy blanket in the middle of winter, warm and soft. It’s comfortable and Crowley adores it; all this time together, the dinner dates, the theatre, the walks in the park, the game nights, the cinema, the drinking until dawn sprawled in the same sofa, all the talking and agreeable silences. It’s effortless and lovely and Crowley sees Aziraphale settling down into it as well.

Every new opportunity to do something together, they take it. Crowley brings plants to the bookshop and Aziraphale leaves books in his flat. Their life mingled together, as if this is what it was meant to be all along.

Until one day their new normal shudders and readjusts itself, almost imperceptibly. However, Crowley knows all the nuisances, he’s sure there’s an oscillation, and as such Crowley is a planet orbiting Aziraphale, who is the sun, the brightest star. The gravitational forces, the attraction, the impending collision, it marks the change. It’s always been a matter of time if one is being honest, millennia and closer, closer, _closer_. Until he’s crashing his lips against the angel’s without even thinking.

Any other witness – which, besides God Herself, doesn’t exist – would be able to say that it’s actually the other way around. Aziraphale fills him with little touches, normalizes every new inch gained for there’s no more space needed between their bodies. A witness would say Aziraphale gives Crowley those half-lidded bedroom eyes, cheeks rosy and lips moist, and leans in, leans into Crowley’s orbit, changes his course irremediably, leans into Crowely’s personal space, a soft theatrical whimper leaving past his throat and getting lost into the silence of the bookshop’s back room.

In Crowley’s account, and after so many lonely nights wishing for this and not daring to even _imagine_ , of course that in his books, he’s the instigator. As if he’s pushing his desire into Aziraphale, all at once, way too fast.

( _You go too fast for me_. However, it is not like that. Not at all.)

That is that, one way or another.

In the end, they’re kissing, that’s the important thing. Crowley’s right hand clutching at the back of Aziraphale’s clothes, short of where his wings would sprout forward if they were manifested in this plane of existence; his left one slotted on Aziraphale’s neck, thumb right under his jaw. Aziraphale has a hand on his left wrist, thumb caressing mindlessly on his pulse point, the other hand against his sharp cheekbone, holding him in place. Not like Crowley wants to move away, mind you.

There’s a sneaky tongue and teeth biting a bottom lip, there are sounds that could come from either one of them. Ragged breath and needy hips pushing against each other. There’s a hand disposing of his sunglasses.

Crowley feels light-headed, as if he’s drunk ten bottles of the best red wine but better yet. Lust flutters softly in his abdomen, muscles clenching, legs valiantly trying to wrap themselves around his angel’s thick thighs. Oh how he _wants_. A fire that starts on his tongue, Aziraphale’s poking and licking inside his mouth in the most mischievous way, and it follows through every vein, to every nerve ending. It’s glorious, it’s holy; he’s already hard, his vessel reacting like he’s a mere human. It’s a thrill.

He can’t help the moan, he can’t help climbing into Aziraphale’s lap, he can’t help being mesmerized at it for the seconds they’re apart because _they kissed!_ And then he’s leaning down, stealing another kiss, stealing the oxygen Aziraphale got to gulp into his lungs and start anew.

Aziraphale’s hands decide they want more as well, and soon find his ribs, his waist, his thighs, his arse.

As if he were a serpent, Crowley finds himself undulating over his angel senselessly, only following the electric feeling of heat and flesh and satisfaction, chasing pressure and relief and raw desire, kiss after kiss.

Something snapped, within them and all around and Crowley breathes fire, the heat of the love he has tried so hard to deny but undoubtedly lives in his heart. He’s done for, Aziraphale is a beacon of pure light and all the undemonic emotions he’s been harbouring since the Garden. It’s intoxicating.

“Oh Crowely.” Aziraphale murmurs like it’s a praise, right on his lip. They can’t tolerate being separated more than this. “You’re the most gorgeous, attractive creature in all creation. You have no idea how beautiful I find you.”

His heart beats like it wants to escape the cage of his ribs, fling itself into Aziraphale’s hands, sorry for the bloodstains. “Angel, I— I—” He can’t articulate the magnitude of his emotions, the weight that’s on his shoulders; he can’t begin to explain how much he longs to indulge his angel, in whichever way it happens to be.

The desperation must be painfully clear because Aziraphale is smiling tenderly, a hand releasing his bounty and travelling across the expanse of Crowley’s back to pet lovingly his hair. “It’s all right dear, you don’t have to say anything.”

There’s one thing he hesitates in indulging, he can’t – Fuck, Crowley can’t for the sake of himself, follow this through if, if Aziraphale is in it for the physical pleasure only— _God_ , it would break him into a million pieces. And it wouldn’t even matter, he’d offer himself again and again until there wasn’t a trace of him anymore. It would hurt so, but he will give it freely.

He chokes on words that despairingly won’t come out of his mouth, it’s been so long and now that he’s here, they’re both here… “No.” He pitifully utters.

“No?” Aziraphale’s eyebrow lift in confusion. “Oh. Oh!” He’s removing his hands promptly, no more contact than their thighs and middle sections pressed as Crowley’s still on his lap, hands suddenly shy and letting the angel go as well. “I am terribly sorry! I’ve read the situation completely wrong, haven’t I?” He clings to the last sliver of hope and shakes his head. “My darling boy.” And it’s sweet and caring and full of regret, it pierces a hole in Crowley’s soul.

“Angel, please.” He chokes, wishing he could be wearing his glasses still to hide how vulnerable his eyes make him look.

“I’m so sorry.”

But Crowley isn’t climbing down, he isn’t hiding his insecurity, he isn’t giving this hard earned intimacy back. He can’t, he doesn’t want to. “Please don’t be.” Aziraphale blinks, not really knowing what to do with this confession of sorts. Crowley pecks him right on the lips and closing his eyes, rests his forehead on the angel’s shoulder. “Don’t be sorry, because this is what I want.” A sound of surprise echoes in the room, Aziraphale’s hands regain their confidence and settle on his lower back, drawing comforting circles there. “I want this, all of this. And I want more, angel, I want _everything_.”

“Oh.”

“For fuck’s sake, Aziraphale, I’ve been wanting everything you can give me since forever. I just—”

“Crowley.” He calls, and shakes his shoulder softly but it isn’t enough to make Crowley resurface from that spot. “Oh Crowley, look at me.” Hands on his face draw him back, molten gold on sky blue. “I have also wanted you for so long.”

Something that sounds like way too many consonants smashed together leaves Crowley’s mouth. “Nnn— no. That’s not it.” He manages to utter. And puts his own hands over Aziraphale’s, preventing them to flee away. “It’s more than want, angel. It’s lust, yes, of course it’s thisss.” And while stressing the ‘s’ in a hiss, he grinds his groin against Aziraphale’s soft stomach startling a gasping moan as a reply. “And it’s all we’ve done so far, dinners and walks and conversations. And it’s _more_.”

Aziraphale looks at him, at his lips, blinks, and chuckles.

He thought that sleeping with his angel when he didn’t love him back was the most hurtful thing in the universe. He was wrong. _This is_. Aziraphale laughing at him, ridiculing his _love_. He does climb down now, if only he knew where his sunglasses ended up, muscles tense and heart broken.

“Oh no no no.” And Aziraphale is standing after him, arms outstretched towards him. “Bother, I’m a mess.” It’s said more to himself than anything but it does, in fact, stop Crowley. “Heavens, Crowley, _I love you_. I feel the same, I want what we already have, and I want this too if you want it as well, and I want everything we can arrange together. I love you.”

His knees buckle and it’s mostly a miracle he doesn’t fall to the floor, heart soaring and wanting to escape, to run away or right into Aziraphale’s own chest, that’s debatable.

A step forward. “I’ve loved you from the very beginning. I’m in love with you.”

Aziraphale catches him into his arm, warm chest and thick arms all around. Crowley could cry.

“My dear, my love, _my Crowley_. I love you too, I am in love with you, yes.”

If Crowley does cry a little, well, they can both pretend like he doesn’t to make him feel as in control as ever, even if it’s just play pretend. None the wiser.

  
  


**Make me walk, make me talk, do whatever you please**

Imagination comes into play once again, not just fantasizing about Aziraphale’s pale skin and sweet noises, but this time coming up with ways to indulge his angel.

Although, to be supremely honest, Aziraphale has a lot of ideas and imagination of his own. Crowley is delighted, drowning in affection and lust, and every possible dream of theirs coming true.

“Anything you want, angel.” He whispers hotly against the tempting patch of skin right behind Aziraphale’s ear. It makes them both shiver.

It’s a promise, it’s the way Crowley has been living his life, at the mercy of Aziraphale’s whims.

“All of it, darling. I want all of you, of us.”

There’s a choked sound, clumsy hands working on clothes as fast as humanly possible. And _that_ is a thought, doing things the human way, savouring the non-miracle way of ravishing each other. This pleasure is earthly, is purely human so it makes sense in the end, he guesses.

And oh what a pleasure it is. Uncovering skin, latching onto it with mouth and tongue and teeth. Hearing gasps and moans and sometimes wondering who’s the one emitting those sounds. All hot and bothered, finding purchase in each other, leaning into walls and furnitures, making the trip up the stairs and rediscovering Aziraphale’s bedroom in a complete new light, with a complete new purpose.

Oh, truly, Crowley would do anything, _anything_. Anything his angel wants of him. Everything, really. All his angel might want or need, he probably doesn’t have to think it twice.

And without thinking is how they end up on the bed, tartan cover and ivory-coloured sheets, naked and ruffled and so very interested in this lustful outcome of their love. Of their confession, the last straw, the ultimate soft blow crumpling this house of cards carefully constructed.

“Crowley.” Aziraphale calls, one hand buried in copper hair, the other leaving fingertips imprinted on his shoulder.

Crowley wants, so so much. It’s overwhelming.

“Tell me what you want, what you need.” He sings against the hollow of Aziraphale’s throat, legs almost entwined together, the friction between their bodies sparkling all the loveliest reactions out of these vessels. “Is this what you like?” And there’s need for validation mixing in the pleading tone, shaky words and even shakier hands trying to contain all of the angel as close to him as the physics at play will allow.

Crowley wants to satisfy Aziraphale, wants to show him his love and desire all nicely packed together, wants to fulfil every dream Aziraphale could have had and then more, always more. Everything his angel wants or needs, Crowley will do. Heaven above and Hell below, he loves Aziraphale so fucking much.

With a tender kind of force – and what a dichotomy that is – Aziraphale manages to separate them enough to look him in the eye. No sunglasses, no barriers, no nothing; bare truth and raw longing. His blue eyes are clear as the sky before all this pollution, the kind of pure and soft blue that makes you want to spring your wings free and fly all morning aimlessly, enjoying the clouds and sun alike.

“I like _you_.” Aziraphale stresses, kindly. A peck on the lips and Crowley’s wild lust gets reigned in. For a bit at least. Exchanged for so much fondness. “I like what we’re doing. I would like it if you want to go further and I would like it if you decide that this human way of showing love isn’t for us.” A broken incoherent attempt of words leaves Crowley’s mouth, throat dry and raspy. And they haven’t done more than kiss and touch a little, he’s already so into it, he feels _blessed_ , enveloped in all this holy love. Aziraphale’s smile is warm and sweet, the crinkle at the corner of those eyes looking so pleasingly comfortable in this context. “You don’t have to do more than what you always do, Crowley. You’re always so lovely to me, my dearest.”

“Ffssnnk, nnnooo. Don’t—” He bravely fights against the urge to hide his face, with his glasses or simply faceplanting himself onto the pillows or the angel’s chest. “Don’t say things like that.” He finishes somewhat lamely, mostly just a whisper.

It gives Aziraphale a renewed strength, to caress with the tip of his fingers Crowley’s scalp, the other hand finding its way towards Crowley’s waist, eyes never leaving his golden ones. That basically undoes the demon.

“You,” Aziraphale starts, and peppers kisses onto his cheeks, his forehead, his lips, his snake mark, his eyelids that conveniently close themselves to allow this cute onslaught. “Are my heart. My most cherished fantasy. In whichever form you decide to take, in whichever form you permit me to enjoy you.”

“ _Angel_.” This time around he does hide his face, right against the point where neck meets shoulder.

He grazes his teeth there as a compliant, the low heartfelt chuckle of Aziraphale quickly turns into something wanton.

“Oh, I am sorry. I just can’t help it though.” Crowley groans at this. “Well, darling. I mean, it is true.”

If a demon could get discorporated in a goo of embarrassment and joy, this would be the moment of such death for Crowley. And yet, when he finds the impulse to lift his head, oh Aziraphale looks so very radiant, so gorgeous in his nakedness, not only in the physical sense but also finally allowing himself, allowing themselves really, this intimacy and expression of love. He glows, creamy skin alight. The angel is the brightest star, and he’s inevitably attracted to him, could never ever leave his gravitational pull.

The smile is soft and heartfelt, wholesome, illuminating even the darkest corners of Crowley. “I love you.” He can’t help himself, Crowley is overflowing with this feeling. He has remained silent for so long, caging it inside his thorax, ribs like prison bars.

Now it’s been cracked open, bleeding heart and love and every desperate wish of being _more_.

Half lidded eyes and plump hands caressing his sides shift the mood seamlessly, the tenderness of love giving way to all-consuming lust. It makes Crowley gulp, and then Aziraphale is spreading his legs, bending at the knees and planting his foot on the mattress; Crowley fits perfectly in the valley recently created, bracketed by thick soft thighs. It’s almost too much, the pleasure peaking, he’s rutting against the delicious skin all around.

“Darling, love.” Aziraphale moans breathless and his hands are suddenly grabbing Crowley’s cheeks, eyes blown wide. “Make love to me, Crowley, please.”

How could he ever do anything else besides complying?

  
  


**I can act like a star, I can beg on my knees**

It moves slowly. Or at least that’s what Crowley thinks it does. This new thing between them, this human lust. They progress tenderly, in tandem. Hands and mouths, and praises, and nails and bites, and fingers, and at last penetration; everything just the slow human way. It’s a natural progression, if Crowley can admit it without turning as red as his hair.

Sometimes he believes he’s going to corrupt Aziraphale, drown him with the immensity of his emotions. Other times he feels so light, so ethereal, that he could fly right out of his human-shaped body, shatter into thousand of pleased pieces.

Sometimes he thinks Aziraphale will burn him with the holy flames of his need. Crowley is so fucking _delighted_ , the angel wants him back just as much, a true miracle. His heated body, his soft skin, the lovely words and encouragements. _His mouth!_ Crowley could go on and on and there wouldn’t be enough time to truly express how amazing this is. Being finally together, exploring this earthly desire they share. Eternity wouldn’t be long enough to worship his angel as painstakingly as he deserves.

“Oh sweetheart.”

And the nicknames, they’re devastating. Crowley’s breath hitches, hands clasping those sinful hips. If his throat weren’t working opening around Aziraphale’s member, he’d be making wild noises. He’s delirious with the way his angel is pulling his hair, head thrown back in ecstasy, legs trembling, and barely being supported upright by the bedroom wall. Crowley has enjoyed Aziraphale’s mouth earlier this morning so now of course he’s returning the favour.

He’s half mad with this, the heavy velvety weight of Aziraphale’s fat prick stretching his mouth, he’d be gagging with how deep he’s taking it if he so much as thinks that’d be something sexy to perform.

Then, the angel’s tugging, harder and with purpose and Crowley moves away, enough to bite the tempting thigh he’s presented with.

“What is it?” He asks, and his voice is hoarse. It makes them both shiver. “What do you want?” He tries again, ridiculously happy than he sounds wrecked.

A steadying breath and a cheeky smile later, Crowley is leaving his post at Aziraphale’s feet and up, knees creaking, launching himself desperately at those lips, tongue avid. They whine at the contact, wet and passionate. Aziraphale must be tasting himself.

“Want you.” Aziraphale says in a way that seems like he’s confessing. “Want you inside me. _Please_.”

Aziraphale’s every wish is Crowley’s command.

“Yessss.” The hiss is involuntary, arms closing around Aziraphale’s middle, fangs mildly sharp biting a bottom lip, the edge of a jaw, the lobe of an ear, a shoulder. “Bed?”

“Oh yes, please. Thank you.” It’s a prayer, it undoes Crowley.

The trip is short and much like that first time, the urgency has them almost ripping clothes off each other’s bodies. It’s always so astonishing how compelling their need is, how strong even after days and weeks of… _biblically knowing_ each other non-stop.

Crowley really tries to not tear the delicate fabrics of Aziraphale’s well-beloved outfit but the lips at his throat distract him way too easily, his angel panting sweet nothings in the otherwise silent room prompting him to hurry. Well, it’s not like he’s above miracling the clothes back to perfection. His own usual tight black ensemble discarded uncaringly and swiftly.

Soon enough the smell of arousal and lube floods his nostrils, the musky scent of Aziraphale – already stuck to the roof of his mouth from the previous unfinished blowjob – intensifies, invading every other sense, all his nerves alight with it. The angel on his lap squirming with two fingers inside, scissoring now, is too much, not enough. He thuds his head against the bed frame.

“Sweetheart, sweetheart.” Aziraphale sounds breathless, bouncing on Crowley’s fingers, fucking himself open and what a feverish joy. “Careful.” He mumbles, smile soft. Crowley stops his hand, lifts his head to ask with golden eyes if he hurt his love, the other hand finds a tender rhythm caressing his back from neck to coccyx. “Oh no, that won’t do.” But it’s mischievous. “Your head, careful.” He explains and his gorgeous hands find themselves bracing it in case the demon decides to throw his head backwards again. “Now move, dearest.” A push of his hips and Crowley gets the hint.

“ _Fuck_.” He grits out. Ignoring the whine of protest, he removes his hands, provides himself with more lube just in case and goes right back into the action, teasing three fingers now. Impossibly hot and immensely turned on, his face buried now on Aziraphale’s chest, sharp teeth and sweet tongue tending one nipple at a time. An approving sigh later, Aziraphale’s hands on his head start to tangle on his hair more vigorously. “ _Angel_.” He presses at an especially strong pull that has him slamming fingers forcefully inside the willing body on his lap.

A litany of Crowley’s name falls unashamedly from the angel’s mouth, desperate as well.

Every corner, every inch of air is vitiated with heat and lust and raw love. With need and satisfaction at being able to act on all of these emotions.

“How do you want me?” Aziraphale asks and brings him up for a kiss, messy and despairingly sweet. “I’m so ready, my darling, come on. How do you want me?”

Too many consonants and too little vowels in an approximation of a sound that tries to be some coherent sentence. It is not. And the only effect it has, besides embarrassing Crowley, is putting the cutest smile on Aziraphale’s flushed face. Oh he can live with that outcome. “Ffffaksss— nnngghh—” Aziraphale giggles and pets him and waits. “For fuck’s sake.” And that is coherent enough, probably. “How do _you_ want it?” At that, his angels blinks, as if he hasn’t even considered Crowley could turn the question on him. He bites the inside of his cheek to keep himself from showing the widest smile he can produce. “Is this how you want it? Do you want to ride me, angel?”

“That sounds lovely, oh yes, please.”

Just like that, Crowley is laying more comfortably, helping Aziraphale to rise to his knees, the angel making quick work of slicking Crowley’s member, and then lowering himself slowly. They’re both breathless, broken little sounds as more of Crowley fits inside Aziraphale.

Aziraphale’s tempting mouth forms a silent O, eyes falling shut, hands on his shoulders for purchase.

They stay motionless for a few heartbeats, holding each other close. Impulsively, Crowley kneads the plump ass cheeks, wondering if it does anything for his angel. Fully sheathed is somehow finding the holy light he’s been denied, it burns in the most pleasant way, hot and pure.

“My heart, you’re magnificent.” Aziraphale utters, allowing himself to start moving leisurely, dragging the feeling of being filled, enjoying Crowley’s muscles contracting and trembling in self-imposed control. “Oh how I adore you.” He keeps going and it tears a feral moaning growl out of Crowley.

He so wants to bite the place where neck meets shoulder, he wants for Aziraphale to fuck himself relentlessly until they’re both voiceless from screaming in pleasure. What a thought. Instead, he thrusts deliberately up, matching Aziraphale lazy pace; trying his hardest to not latch onto the praise he’s getting because Aziraphale probably doesn’t even realize what he’s saying.

The bed shakes as the rhythm starts getting more accelerated, Aziraphale’s speech deteriorates and he’s no longer making sense, just a mumble of _yes, please, more,_ _dearest_ _, more, Crowley_ and it’s driving Crowley completely crazy. He can only smell heated skin, the sweat flattening and plastering those fluffy white blond curls onto the nape of his neck and forehead. He’s feverish with the way every soft curve of his angel wiggles as he tries to go faster and faster.

Crowley only groans and encourages him, positive feedback will do nicely he thinks. He also thinks he wants nothing more than to drown himself in the primal instinct that’s screaming at him to claim his lover’s body, sink his teeth and fingers into every supple patch of skin. He can’t, he can’t, he can’t mar this creamy expanse of pale divinity.

However, he can’t help at the very least to wrap his hand around Aziraphale’s hardness, pushing him over the edge.

“Noooouhh...” Comes the whimpering complain.

“No?” And he halts in the act, his hand, his hips, even his unsteady breathing pattern, everything stops.

“Want to come untouched.”

Honestly, God bless the idea of attaching the jaw to the rest of the skull; otherwise, his would be rolling on the floor right now. If it’s possible, he’s blushing even harder.

“Gknk _angel_.” He seriously wants to not be scandalized but here he is. With his sweet soft angel who’s a total deviant given the chance.

“Oh darling you’re so mild.” Aziraphale supplies, a whisper against his lips before kissing him. He’s totally dumbfounded, he doesn’t respond to the contact. He’s made of stone, immobile and _mild_ apparently. “Crowley?” The tone is worried and inquisitive.

“Aziraphale.” It’s amazing they’re still joined, and the angel hasn’t really stopped moving, simply slowed to small circles with his hips. It’s even more amazing that neither of them has lost their erections, all things considered right now. “I’m what?”

Suddenly, as if a light bulb went off, Aziraphale gets the idea. “No!” He amends. “That is most definitely not what I meant!” Which is funny, because so far Crowley hasn’t said what he thinks Aziraphale meant by that. The conclusion, one way or another, is that it isn’t a good thing. “It is not an insult to you, my dearest, I swear to— To hmm.” He falters. “I meant no insult, I swear it to our love.”

Well, that’s good. Still, he doesn’t know what Aziraphale meant. Squeezing his waist, the stab of annoyance bothers him enough to lift an eyebrow and wait for an explanation that makes sense.

“I’m what now?” He tries again, calmer.

Aziraphale drops his gaze and moves enough to break their physical link. Taking a deep inhale, he offers a tiny smile – it always touches Crowley’s needy heart. “Perhaps mild isn’t the right word. I didn’t want to say sweet or kind or _nice_ , I know how you react to those, my dear.” It makes him gulp around nothing and Aziraphale’s smile gains confidence, a hand on the side of his neck moves him to the right place for a chaste kiss. “I just mean to say you’re always so careful with me, like I’m made of spun glass or antique china. You aren’t going to break me if you go harder, you do know that, right?”

“If I— wha— _what_. You mean like—” He really wants to finish a sentence before attempting to start another one but his brain has turned into mush.

“Not coherent.” Aziraphale admonishes without heat into it, petting his jaw with his thumb.

He swallows against the lump in his throat, all the things he wants to say but can’t articulate stuck in there. Finally he manages to pick one string of words coherent enough to utter. “Do you want me to be rough with you?” Crowley can’t take the disbelieving edge out of it.

“Oh no! No, no. I love how you’re with me. I’m just saying that I’m not fragile, you can take your pleasure.” He licks his lips. “I won’t break if you want to fuck me into the mattress.”

“Fff—fuck you… into the mattress. _God dammit_.”

“No need to be blasphemous.”

He narrows his eyes. “Sweet Jesus on a cracker.”

“Now you’re just being silly.” But Aziraphale’s smiling amusedly.

“Demon here.” It’s his defence with rolling eyes.

Aziraphale’s free hand finds its place right on his chest, above his heart. “A real sweetheart here.” The angel corrects him in a soft whisper, soulfully meaningful. However, Crowley can’t take much of these praises. The hand moves, teasingly going over a nipple making him gasps, over clavicle, the hollow of his throat, a finger to a bottom lip soft and invitingly slack, caressing the snake mark, until finally reaching Crowley’s temple. Aziraphale smiles and makes a point of looking right into those golden eyes. “Astutely clever here.”

“Angel. There’s no need to, to… buy me with flattery.”

“It’s not about that!” Aziraphale promptly protests.

Crowley basically ignores it and keeps talking. “I’m already yours. I will give you what you want, what you need.”

The angel’s face goes impossibly softer, eyes two celestial pools of fondness and want. How can Crowley be anything other than careful with those plump cheeks, those lovely curves, those full hips and thighs, the thick of the meat that calls for sucking kisses and tender caresses.

“My love.” He pants, and they’re kissing. “I’m yours as well, all of me.”

The thing is that Crowley only knows of worshipping. Of pushing his lips against those of Aziraphale and moan delightedly. He only knows of offering himself to his angel, all raw emotion and no reasoning at all. And he will learn now to fuck him into the mattress as a way of showing his love and lust; well, he can do that. Oh how he can do that.

The growl is born into the deep of his chest, stumbling out almost aggressively. His grip on Aziraphale’s waist turns tighter as a sort of warning, and then he’s flipping them. A breathy _oof_ and Aziraphale is clawing at his shoulders, being planted on his back and Crowley almost looming over him. He offers a wicked grin, and it has the angel giggling once he gets it, his legs firmly entwining behind the small of Crowley’s back.

“Tell me.” And with a shaky hand he’s guiding his erection towards Aziraphale’s entrance. “Tell me if something doesn’t feel good, okay?”

“All right.” The angel promises and Crowley sees the excitement all over his face, he truly desires this, Crowley being a bit more forceful than usual. “Oh don’t tease me, please.” He begs as soon as Crowley finds himself toying with the rim, the tip of his prick catching it teasingly. Crowley isn’t particularly doing it on purpose, but the keening gasps are worth the wait.

“I would never.” Crowley lies, and thrusts inside in one fluid snap of his hips. Aziraphale throws his head backwards, bearing his throat for Crowley’s fangs. A hand clasps crimson hair, the other struggling against the sheets for more purchase. “Good?”

“Ye— yes.”

A part of him still supplies the word _rough_. It’s not like he could manhandle the angel if he wasn’t okay with it; however, Crowley is more kin to strong and resolute than merely rough. To worship in the way his angel needs him to. That’s how he starts fucking into Aziraphale with gusto. The noises his angel makes are such a reward, an ode to pleasure, all tiny _ah-ah_ s and _oh-oh_ s mixed in with Crowley’s name and other small words, such as _yes_ and _more_ and _faster_ and _harder_. So he complies, picking up the pace and strength.

Aziraphale ends up with hands flat on the headboard to avoid hitting his head. But it isn’t enough and he has a plan.

Leaning down, Crowley licks the shell of an ear, Aziraphale on instinct alone moves his head to the other side providing the space the demon needs to finally bite that delicious place – a disembodied voice in his head elaborates the word trapezius and he couldn’t care any less.

“Angel.” He calls over the ragged protest as he retreats. “Turn over.” It could be a command, even if the only goal is to please Aziraphale. Funny how Crowley is _very_ pleased too, for a moment worrying he won’t last enough. “On hands and knees.”

The rearranging takes a moment or two, mostly because Aziraphale finds himself blinking up at him completely turned on for copious seconds before actually starting to move. Crowley helps him enough, a hand on his lower back, the other on the inside of a thigh, spreading the angel like the most gorgeous cherub any horny human painter has ever drawn.

Sensing Aziraphale is about to beg him to hurry, Crowley promptly takes position and forgoes the teasing altogether, bottoming out as soon as possible.

It is authentically magnificent, heat and lust and satisfaction all rolled into their hips moving, their bodies joined in one.

Aziraphale bites the pillow, knuckles white from the force of gripping the sheet below. Crowley gives a few tentative slow thrusts, quite hard but not exactly fast, and he sees the drool pooling on the pillow, Aziraphale’s eyes rolling back momentarily.

“Good?” He checks again. Somehow the angel nods. “Use your words?” He may be pushing for it but he’s dying to hear that breathless voice confirm he’s the one brining Aziraphale so much pleasure he can barely stand it.

Releasing the mouthful of fabric, he starts a sound that could very well have been Crowley’s name and sadistically he rejoices in snapping his hips forward with all his might and the sound transforms into a pornographic moan.

“Better than good.” Aziraphale manages, all strangled vowels and thick consonants. “Kiss me?”

Crowley can’t refuse, can never refuse honestly. He drapes all over his angel’s back, a hand moves to grip the softness around his middle and the other disentangle one of Aziraphale’s hands to hold it.

The kiss isn’t much of a kiss due to the accelerated rhythm of their lower halves; still, it’s a nice and comfortable press of lips, sharing air and little noises.

“I love you so much.” Crowley says like a confession, like a prayer, and starts looking for the right angle, that spot inside the angel to make him come untouched as he’s been asked.

“ _There!_ ” Aziraphale triumphantly shouts, all contorted in satisfaction. “Oh there my darling, there, there, there, please—”

Crowley can’t even process the string of words out of Aziraphale’s mouth, he’s too preoccupied with keeping the pace at the perfect tempo and perfect angle, not one motion out of sync. As it is, he’s sure there are a lot of praises and flattery and more declarations of love; probably for the better then that it’s all a buzzing charming white noise in the cadence of Aziraphale’s voice and the slick almost embarrassing sound of skin slapping against skin.

He’s relentless and strong, Aziraphale pushing back as much as he can. The bed shakes critically yet there isn’t one single neuron able to worry about such trivial thing.

Giving it all, giving everything as Crowley does, the angel comes untouched, screaming something intelligible. Three strokes later, he’s following him, unceremoniously collapsing on the mattress at Aziraphale’s side. A job well done.

  
  


**You can brush my hair, undress me everywhere**

“It suits you.”

He opens an eye to spy on Aziraphale. He’s been lounging in the most comfortable and fashionable armchair he could miracle right under the lovely stream of sunlight filtering through a tall window in the bookshop. Perfectly in the middle of a small space between two racks as to annoy unruly customers.

“What?” He slurs, he _was_ dozing off in fact.

Aziraphale looks at him with utmost serenity and fond devotion.

“Your hair.” And that isn’t what he was expecting. “It’s gotten quite long, my dear. I think it suits you nicely.”

He uncoils from his seat, blinking awake. “Ah.” He lands a foot on the floor, the other in the air as his leg flings itself over the armrest. “Thank you?” Absentmindedly, a hand goes to his hair, entwining one finger in a lost lock, twirling it carelessly. It is true, he hasn’t bothered to cut it and now it reaches just below his shoulders.

“I mean to say, I usually love your hair styles, nothing wrong with short hair. But I, ah, I might have a soft spot for it longer.”

“Really?”

Crowley doesn’t want to preen at the information; however, he’s glad, he likes long hair too and knowing Aziraphale enjoys it is a fine bonus. So he can’t help it, his chest swells with warmth.

“Of course.” And he knows that twinkling shine in those gorgeous eyes, something cocky and amused. Aziraphale doesn’t add anything else, interrupted by the door opening, bell chiming, and some unsuspecting fool entering.

The day goes by slowly. After ushering said fool out, Aziraphale manages to scare off the other two people that come by, convincing one that they don’t like books after all and would rather buy an e-reader, and the other via ridiculous high prices. “They’re all extremely old and well-cared for first editions, I’m afraid the cost is indeed quite expensive.” He says, cunning through his unassuming smile.

How Crowley enjoys this, just sitting in a corner and watching the angel be himself. Drinking cup after cup, reading incessantly, making sure no one buys a book as if his life depends on it. This easy normalcy mixes in so well with their new intimacy behind closed doors, he’s charmed. Right now he feels he couldn’t ask for more, life with Aziraphale is disgustingly lovely, he’s so comfortable, so filled with positive emotions; Heaven above and Hell below, he could simply cry the whole day away with the biggest smile on display.

Instead, he sprawls some more, actually popping some bones in the process, and checks his wrist watch. It’s a bit later than usual for lunch but he bets his angel is peckish enough to accept a meal somewhere not far. He’s about to propose going out when he sees Aziraphale roll his sleeves up just shy of his elbows and, with a flourish, the angel produces a small make-up bag from the last drawer of his desk.

As he comes closer, Crowley gets to see the floral pattern of it, it’s an old bag pretty full by the looks of it.

“May I?” He asks and Crowley’s reply is an arched eyebrow. Aziraphale nods, wiggling delightedly in place when presenting his demon with a broad hairbrush.

It catches him totally off guard.

“I— yes?” He falters, eyeing the brush in those manicured hands, the non-threatening posture of his angel. A shiver runs down his spine, they haven’t done this before and he doesn’t know what to expect but there’s anticipation, an electricity rampant on his veins at the thought. “Sure, sure, sure.”

And then, that look, all coy and fake naivety. It tears a hole in his chest, gushing blood and love and devotion right out of his open heart. It’s silly really, they’ve seen each other naked in ecstasy, or drunk out of their mind, in their most vulnerable states, and yet. Yet here he is, feeling like this is the epitome of intimacy, something so _theirs_ that it almost hurts. There’s no pretence, no room to hide or escape. Not like he wants to, but he has always feared being too much for Aziraphale, too raw and wild.

Is this being tamed? He doesn’t think so. Honestly, if being tamed feels like this, he isn’t particularly complaining.

Aziraphale sits all prim and proper on the armrest and clears his throat. “Won’t you be more comfortable without glasses, dear?” Crowley dumbly nods and removes them silently, putting them on the chest pocket of his dark grey shirt. If anyone comes into the shop, they’re hidden enough and he trusts he’ll be quick enough to put them right back on. “Thank you. I adore your eyes so.” It makes him gulp, the honesty in those words, and it’s not like he hates his snake eyes or anything like that, it’s just that sunglasses have become sort of a fashion statement, his unique style. Knowing the angel adore his eyes is debilitating, he’ll have it in mind. “Now…” Aziraphale trails off meaningfully.

Crowley immediately moves, facing away and offering his head and hair for the angel to do what he pleases, a leg bent up on the seat and the other spread out to the side, hands on the free armrest.

What the angel pleases it turns out to be a very innocent hair brushing session in the middle of the afternoon, sun pooling on them, the noise of traffic lulling them to a precarious sense of suspension of disbelief, like anything could happen, as if they’re both inside some ludicrous dream.

The whole thing is a guileless affair clearly, Aziraphale only touching him to direct his head to this side and that, using contained force to untangle the worst knots, just— just… brushing his hair lovingly. Humming occasionally, the angel manages to not say a word and Crowley follows suit, mostly because he doesn’t want to ruin the mood, whichever it is, but it seems so precious and cosy and damn, he’s so fucking in love with his angel, caressing hands even in the most chaste of ways make him all warm and fuzzy inside.

He finds himself relaxing, sinking into the cushions. The humming and methodical movements are almost hypnotizing. His eyes droop, shoulders too, every muscle in his body is untensing slowly, this is therapeutic, better than a full body massage. Crowley is in Heaven – if Heaven were actually a warm comfortable place. Oh but Aziraphale, Aziraphale is fandom Heaven in Earth. His angel is love personified, soft hands, even softer lullabies.

“Stay, please.” Hot breath on his ear wakes him up from his reprieve.

He wishes to open his eyes and watch where Aziraphale is going, but he feels the smile in the mild command to stay put and he wishes to obey more than anything else.

The steps don’t go far and he’s back quickly. Crowley groans his satisfaction as soon as a hand pets his hair once again, his back arches on its own accord, pressing his head against the petting, something akin to a purr leaving his lips. Aziraphale chuckles heartily, offering nothing else, completely pleased as well.

There’s a comb now, at least that’s what Crowley thinks. Thin and swift, parting locks of hair.

“Wha—?” He starts, not above a whisper.

“Shhh.” Aziraphale shushes, and deposits a tender kiss atop of his head. “May I braid your hair?”

Ah. That’s it.

“Yes.” And he’s flushing, not knowing exactly sure why. This feels so soft around the edges, so intimate, so very sweet and considerate. A silly little ritual he can totally get used to. “I’d like to.” He manages to utter, almost brokenly.

He feels all the praises just bubbling up on the angel’s chest, ready to spill out and fill Crowley’s own chest, to drown him in the heat of their love and devotion and if Crowley wants to worship indulging Aziraphale, then the angel worships him by showing how very deserving of love and praise Crowley is. Ridiculous. He loves it and hates it at the same time.

Some more humming later, a few unintentional tugs here and there, and the braid is done. A tiny black elastic band at the end of it completes the work.

“There, my dear.” Another kiss atop of his head, a finger twirling the recently finished braid. “Oh I truly adore your hair.”

In effect, it is a trance, and it’s hard to awaken entirely. The constant presence of his angel so close and so focused on him is such a treat, he’s floating, barely anchored by the steady breathing and soft chanting humming, a slow old song Crowley’s sure he has listened to a hundred times but can’t really place it now.

A teasing finger caresses the nape of his neck, now completely available as his hair has been combed and braided aside. A feathery touch. Then on the shell of his ear, pinching the lobe playfully. He tenses, the atmosphere suddenly too electrified all things considered. There’s a raspy moan as Aziraphale’s tongue follows the same road his finger did moments ago, hot and wet, and all Crowley can do is tremble and _want_.

“Darling, turn this way?”

He swallows against the lump in his throat, impossibly horny for the angel’s whole attention on him for hours to no end. It’s funny how he didn’t notice this feeling this strongly while having sex, he’s delirious with the power of being Aziraphale’s sole focus.

Obeying promptly, he’s faced with the fond smile, the usual witty blue eyes and perfectly capable hands of his angel. All packed so cutely in that soft body, curves and thickness to drown in for the whole of eternity if he could. His own eyes must be wild or vulnerable or fuck knows what because Aziraphale is shushing him again, like calming a toddler or an animal.

“There you are, my heart.” Aziraphale murmurs, and tenderly cradles his face, a thumb carressing mindlessly the snake mark. Every word Crowley wants to say dies down on his throat, dry and tight. However, there’s no need for words. “There you are.” He repeats, leaning his head down at the same time he’s tilting Crowley’s head up.

They meet in the middle, eyes closing and lips brushing in a peck at first. But there’s so much passion within, Crowley whines when that playful tongue of his angel caresses his bottom lip and he grants it access to his mouth quickly. They rub their tongues together, licking and biting and suking at leisure.

Somehow this feels so intense. Maybe it’s because it’s the middle of the day, the sunlight heating the space, the sounds of foot traffic and vehicles alike filtering in. Maybe it’s because the bookshop is technically open and they’re making out like human teens who can’t keep their hands to themselves.

And talking about hands, Aziraphale makes an excellent job at letting go of his face now that Crowley is exactly where he wants him and running down his sides until they can breach his shirt and caress his stomach and ribs skin on skin. He outright moans at this and his own hands fly towards the angel waist, squeezing the soft flesh there and toying with the hem of the vest, a slim finger slipping under it.

The angel moves away only to divest him of his shirt, Crowley can see the restrained comments about how marvellous he finds him, how gorgeous, how _pliant_. Oh Crowley is putty in Aziraphale’s hands, bending at his angel’s will. He only wants to please him, to do whatever it will make him happy, and if that means letting himself be showered in affection in the middle of the bookshop on a business day, well, he isn’t complaining.

Damn it, he is _enjoying_ it.

The shirt ends somewhere unimportant on the floor, the sunglasses on the breast pocket thudding almost noiselessly, and Aziraphale is back at his task, trailing kisses from his mouth to his jaw and then lower, his neck, his clavicles, the hollow of his throat, his shoulders, back at his neck again to nip and bite.

“Angel…” He moans, throwing his head back against the armchair, trying futilely to push Aziraphale right into his lap. “Come on.” He pleads, getting annoyed at the resistance. “Work with me, angel.” He tries again, almost ready to swallow his pride and beg.

A moan rips through him as Aziraphale ignores him in favour of marking his neck, sucking and leaving a hickey that probably his low cut shirts won’t really hide.

“I’m working you.” The angel replies, cheeky smile and eyes dark with lust. Yes, Aziraphale will be the death of him. “Can you stand up for me, dearest?”

“‘Course I can.” He scoffs, even though for a moment he’s afraid his knees have turned so wobbly he won’t be able to stay upright. Aziraphale stands up and gives a few steps back. “‘Course I can.” And if he sways a bit, the angel is merciful enough to not mention it. “Hey.” He greets besottedly, stepping right into Aziraphale’s personal space.

“Hello to you too.” Aziraphale says, stretching to pronounce every letter right against his lips, a hand coming up to toy with the braid momentarily. “Fancy having you right here.” And he giggles endearingly before kissing him.

“Oh angel.” Crowley buries his hands on those celestial silver blond curls. “You can have me wherever you fancy.”

It puts the coyest look on Aziraphale, he looks away for a second or two only to return his gaze filled to the brim with lust.

“You wicked, wily fiend.” Comes the protest, but it’s soon followed by the angel taking him by the belt loops.

Their hips make contact immediately and it’s insanely hot noticing the interest in Aziraphale’s groin, matching his own interest marvellously.

So Aziraphale starts walking backwards, directing him by the grip on the belt loops. Crowley follows, of course he follows, what else could he do? A growl threatens to go forth, exposing his animalistic passion after such attentive care to his hair.

The path goes straight to the desk, Crowley has an idea or two hundred. Maybe his angel has had ideas of his own. A delighted shiver runs down his spine in anticipation, being suddenly trapped between the desk and the plump body he loves so much.

“It so happens that I fancy you right here.” Aziraphale ruts their groins together, making him gasps.

“Ghh— he— here? Now? With the shop open?”

He blinks bewildered, as if noticing just now that it’s daytime and anyone could walk in on them. Grinning mischievously, he plants a kiss on the tip of his nose and disentangles a hand. “Not to worry, easy to fix.” And waving his free hand carelessly in the general direction of the entrance, he locks the dock and surely flips the sign to ‘most definitely closed’.

And somehow that’s the sexiest thing Aziraphale could have done. He’s so into what’s happening that he can’t even move to close the bookshop traditionally. Good God, the weight of the situation falls into place in Crowley’s mind so out of the blue that he can’t help the moan, Aziraphale’s grin widening. He’s gone delirious, he’s about to get ravished by his angel right here, on his desk in the bookshop in the middle of business hours.

“Is everything okay?” Aziraphale checks with him.

“Oh this is so much more than okay, angel.” He answers, but it’s a croaked sound, all edges of his feverish need.

“I’m glad to hear it.”

He’s being kissed again, deft fingers taking charge of unbuckling his denim jeans. Aziraphale feels so alive and vibrant right against him, filling him with a kind of warmth that only ever surfaces when they’re professing their love in outbursts of lust. Honest to whoever the fuck is available out there, it isn’t even warmth as much as pure and unadulterated burning heat.

There’s a spark, Crowley isn’t accustomed to just sit back and being the one being pleasured; he adores indulging Aziraphale, he adores being the one pleasing the angel; he’s not used to this being the other way around. Although, he can’t really complain, he might not be used to this but it is extremely satisfactory.

When Aziraphale breaks the kiss, he follows, eyes tightly shut and hands gripping the vest. So much fondness mixing in with the desire, it does things to him.

“ _Angel_.” He says meaningfully when it becomes obvious Aziraphale won’t get back to kissing him right this second. Instead, his jeans fall open and his angel takes his left hand, quickly taking his wrist-watch off and leaving a tender kiss on his pulse point there. A barely-there lick has him hitching his breath.

Crowley couldn’t care any less about what exactly Aziraphale does with his watch.

Then he’s kneeling, working the clasps of his designer boots. Out with them and the socks, and the rest of it until Crowley is purely freckled expanse of lovely skin leaning into the desk, everything on display and ready to be worshipped. His prick half hard and pink. Aziraphale discards every piece of fabric in his hand, flying behind a stack of books – and seriously, why’s there a stack of books on the floor as if the whole shop isn’t full of shelves that could contain them? Crowley couldn’t care any less and it isn’t the moment to wonder, not when Aziraphale is rising and looking at him with a hungry expression, eyes darkening.

“You are—” Aziraphale trails off, distracted by Crowley’s Adam apple bobbing as he swallows all these emotions, lest he do something ridiculous like start crying and declaring his unending love. “You are the most gorgeous, marvellous, special creature I have laid eyes upon.” It’s just a whisper and it definitely doesn’t help with Crowley’s plan of avoiding fits of crying because he’s emotionally overwhelmed. “Oh Crowley, I could spend eternity just looking at you and your beauty.”

He gulps. “Better not? You could do better things than looking.” The angel chuckles at this. “Touch me? Aziraphale, please. Whatever you want.”

Aziraphale cups his face. “I want _you_.” It isn’t something said in the heat of the moment, it’s a universal true, the way Aziraphale promises to live from now on and it shatters Crowley’s heart to precious pieces, only to pick them up and rearranging them at pleasure. Oh the angel has the whole fucking eternity, all right. “And darling, I _do_ intend to touch, as much as you allow me.”

“All you want. Anything. Everything.”

This time the kisses land on the edge of his jaw and behind his ear, trailing down, biting his neck and shooting the sharpness with more sucking kisses and small licking. Entire patches of skin gloriously marked.

It’s a slow descent. Aziraphale entertains himself on his throat and collarbones. His hands come to rest on his ribs, squeezing softly from time to time. Crowley’s heart beats unnecessarily fast-paced, his blood running moltening hot down south and filling his erection without shame. If he were a better demon he wouldn’t be ashamed at all, as it is, he’s flushing so much, nearly embarrassed to discorporation. He’s gotten Aziraphale christening his bookshop in the afternoon, demon completely naked while the angel is fully dressed in all his usual layers, and if he tries hard enough he can listen to people on the street, cars honking mercilessly and bikes speeding needlessly.

The red of his blush rivals his hair, and oh the braid is so adorably done, not a single hair out of place. He will make sure of it, if only to earn a smile from his angel, he’s sure he must be proud. Absently, he remembers the brush and comb and the make-up bag and where did all those things even go?

Any question relating to the continued existence of said objects in this plane of reality flies right out his brain as Aziraphale latches onto his right nipple. A series of sounds are uttered, but he manages to not make a single English word and he’s too lost to make out if there was maybe a word in some other language.

Not like he needs to talk, mind you.

His left nipple gets assaulted by Aziraphale’s fingers, so soft and clever, twisting the nub insistently yet tenderly at the same time. Releasing the right one, the angel dedicates the next minutes to wet and toy with the left one, mouth slack and tongue slick on his sensitive skin.

Gasping, he finds himself unable to do more than squirm and arch his back pushing his chest into Aziraphale, hands clenching into the angel’s clothes, regaining momentarily his brain-cells to unclench as to avoid any damage on those old fabrics.

The hand on his ribs dances down, a thumb circling his belly button and when he feels breathless enough from the tingling sensation, it lowers some more to play with his coarse pubic hair, barely touching his member with his knuckles.

The most delicious torture.

Crowley wants to do more, to reciprocate. However, he’s going mad, body overheated, mind mushy and full of raw need.

One last kiss to each nipple and he sinks to his knees so Crowley forces his hand to anchor themselves on the angel’s shoulder.

His mouth teases his concave stomach, biting his sides and a protruding hip bone deciding that the funnest thing to do then is to push his tongue into his belly button.

“Fffuckkk.” Crowley breathes out, wrecked at the crude imitation, his angel simply tongue-fucking his navel.

Aziraphale, bastard as he is, holds his hips tight, almost punishingly into the edge of the desk. He can’t move, he isn’t sure if he wants to. Hell, he just—

And as if Crowley weighed nothing, Aziraphale lifts him easily and sits him on the desk, hands gripping his thighs, a careless miracle clearing the surface. He sputters inelegantly, nails digging into the flesh of Aziraphale’s shoulders. “Goddammit— _Aziraphale_.” He’s fucking turned on, how come this tiny show of strength has him dripping pre-come with abandon? So very embarrassing.

“We’ve already talked about blasphemy and profanities in intimate settings, love.”

It should be illegal for Aziraphale to look so composed, to exercise his strength so freely in this moment when Crowley is feeling so divinely out of sorts. Oh he’ll die if this keep going, all heat and want.

“And I’ve made it clear I don’t give a fuck about blasphemy!”

Aziraphale sighs and shakes his head, like he’s preparing to reproach him. His hands move up to his waist, thumbs caressing in circles there.

“That mouth of yours, darling, what will I do with it?” So many things he could do, Crowley would let him without a doubt. He feels like he’s bursting through the seams already, flooding every free space with his emotions and Aziraphale only smiles beatifically, so in control and serene. “I wouldn’t want to gag you today, you make such arousing sounds.” At this, he finds himself groaning and putting his legs around the angel’s hips, hooking his ankles.

“Gg— Oh shit, fffuuckkk.” He’s like an animal in heat right now, humping Aziraphale’s stomach in search of pressure, friction and satisfaction, the slight burn of the fabric rough on his sensitive skin.

And Aziraphale tuts at him in reproval but doesn’t stop him. “However, I won’t hesitate, dearest. If you need to be gagged or tied down, I won’t hesitate.”

“Aziraphale!” He whines, burying his face into the crook of his shoulder and neck. Taking a deep breath, he stills slowly. “Angel, Lor— Gksat—” Another breath. “I’m really turned on right now, angel, please. Don’t gag me today, don’t tie me today. But please, get on with it? Touch me more?”

That’s some role reversal perhaps, and Crowley can’t complain. He can’t even analyse it to be honest, he _wants_. And he wants _now_.

“Of course, Crowley. Just calm down a little, yes?” He nods against his neck. “I will give you what you need, have some patience my love?”

“Can’t.” He protests and feels the smile on Aziraphale even before seeing it. A hand on his chin and light guidance and he’s watching into mirthful eyes.

“I believe in you, I know you can.” A peck, playful and promising more, so much more. “For me?”

Those… are the magic words. There’s nothing Crowley wouldn’t do for Aziraphale. So here he is, trying to be patient, completely naked on the desk, having to look at his angel dressed and intent on exploring him and totally driving him into insanity.

He leans down and offers another kiss, a lazy passionate one; yes, he’s going to get murdered by Aziraphale’s wishes and damn, what a way to go, huh.

“Everything for you. Anything and everything, angel. _My_ angel.” Aziraphale presses into him, the fabric softly scraping against his skin, a kiss at the ready, tongue and teeth, a hand delicately gripping his braid. “Even…” He pants. “Even if you don’t play fair.”

The angel gifts him with the most cheeky smile he’s ever seen. “Shush now, that’s all lies.”

“You’ve never played fair in your life.” Crowley insists and chuckles at Aziraphale’s mock scandalized look.

Taking a step back and letting go of Crowley’s hair, Aziraphale prompts him to unhook his legs and let go as well.

“May I remind you I didn’t promise not to gag you?”

He’s forced to shut his eyes tight and try very hard not to finish on the spot. There’s something decidedly hot about Aziraphale taking control and threatening to gag him and tie him and to do all manner of kinky things to him. _God_. He’s so weak, he’s whipped. A shiver shakes his body, the image of Aziraphale actually acting on his threats and whipping him for real—

“Damn.”

“Are you with me, Crowley?”

“Yesssss.”

When he snaps his eyes open, all gold bled out and no white left, Aziraphale is still at the same distance, the hunger in his dark blue eyes makes him shudder. He has seen his angel uncountable times directing a similar look towards desserts and foods of all kinds but _this_ , this one is different, more carnal, all heat and animalistic hunger. A thirst that can only be satiated if Crowley ends up limp and spent and oh what a glory.

Aziraphale gives him a last smile, hands flattening his vest, ridding it of wrinkles. And then he’s kneeling, the painting of a repenting eidolon. He takes his right foot and deposits a sweet chaste kiss on the instep.

That’s… new. A noise that suspiciously sounds like _eeck_ leaves his mouth, completely unprepared for a devotee worshipping even his feet.

“Stay with me.” His angels whispers, the hot breath ghosting against his leg. Of course he nods, he wants to stay just like this for the rest of his life, Aziraphale softly kissing and nibbling his legs as if his lanky bony form deserves so much. “Say it?”

Crowley gulps, hands going to pet the ash-blond hair. “Forever. I’ll stay with you for as long as you want me, angel.” His voice is trembling just as much as the rest of him is, a leaf in the wind that is Aziraphale’s strong deep love. “And when you don’t want me anymore—”

“Hush. I will always want you.” Aziraphale interrupts him, sucking a bruise near his knee.

However, he’s past the embarrassment now. The dam has cracked, he’s spilling everywhere, messily and impossible to stop; ribs opening up, heart beating desperately, all the emotions flooding every little unattended nook.

“And when you don’t want me anymore,” He keeps going. “I’ll wait for you outside your door. I’ll still indulge you, would get you the most delicious treats, the oldest books, the best colognes, the flowers you adore.”

“Oh Crowley!” A bite, harder than the previous and he hopes it leaves a mark.

“I’ll wait outside your door, like a loyal pet. Like a cat, I’ll bring you presents, only the best.”

Similar treatment befalls on his left leg and his muscles quiver. It’s tender and slow, licks and kisses and bites and when Aziraphale reaches the meat of his thigh, he sucks three hickeys, bruises blossoming almost magically.

Aziraphale looks up, a cheeky dopey grin on his face, lips shiny from the dampness of his own saliva. “Oh Crowley.” A treacherous finger starts pressing lightly on the bruises, making him gasps. “My door is always open for you; you are not a pet, darling, you’re the love of my life.” It always restarts his heart with a shock, all the love stored there bursting out, spilling, and no, it’s not demon blood, it’s just red because he likes the visual, what a way to die bleeding out if it were though. “My door is open, I want you to come inside.” Aziraphale bites the protrusion of a hip bone, the double meaning passes by, noticed and catching Crowley’s breath on his lungs. “Inside of my home, inside of myself, my soul. You truly are my heart.”

How Crowley adores that idea! It leaves him replenished, thirsty for more. Him being the heart of an Angel of the Lord, him being Aziraphale’s heart in particular. To live inside his chest, to inhabit the tumultuous space of his emotions, to peek at his every idea and see them being fulfilled. To press against strong muscle and wet soft giving flesh, to beat with every breath Aziraphale takes and to rush at the sight of the things Aziraphale loves. What an idea indeed.

Having his angel finally giving attention to his prick flies all rationality out of him, a long unashamed moan sounds and he hastily realizes that’s his voice. That’s him celebrating the closed-mouthed kisses on the base, the licks along the shaft, the tender open-mouthed kiss on the head, the way lips catch on velvety skin. He’s so fucking aroused he’s going mad with it. With arousal and _feelings_.

Fuck’s sake, he has so many feelings, Crowley definitely could be Aziraphale’s heart, he’s overflowing with feelings.

Hips pinned, the angel’s pressing into him to stay seated on the desk exactly where he is, Crowley lets the ministrations keep going at Aziraphale’s pace, gasping and whining, spreading his legs wider just for the decadence of it all. A lazy pace, all leisure that puts moan after moan on his tongue. Aziraphale isn’t even giving him a proper blowjob – he’s had those, and the angel is masterful at it. He’s just teasing, proffering tiny kisses and toying with him, the attention delivered being the end goal.

Crowley is a mess. A feverish whining mess. Oh how he enjoys it.

Aziraphale takes him into his mouth, hollowed cheeks and sucks, _hard_. It makes him see stars, to grip and pull those angelic curls of hair. He wants more, he wants this delicious torture to last forever.

Standing up, Aziraphale seems so satisfied with himself, a proud glow coming off of him. The angel is positively proud of the mess he’s made out of Crowley. And with only some kisses and touches and a playful preview of what having Aziraphale using his mouth on him feels like.

The hunger painted on those sky blue eyes is impressive, Crowley shivers at the intensity of it.

“What can I do for you, my lovely Crowley?” _Everything_ , he wants to say. _Devour me_ , he wishes to whisper. _Fuse myself with you, I want to be your heart, I want to live in you chest and beat with the rhythm of you_. He bites his tongue, and keens. “Use your words, please.” Aziraphale asks.

And what he asks, he gets.

It’s valid, after all; he has asked Aziraphale to put desire into words before as well.

He takes a deep breath. “Make love to me, angel.” He’s heard Aziraphale say these words time and time again, and he’s complied. And they sound so sweet and truthful on his melodic voice. Crowley can’t say he sounds the same but oh, the way Aziraphale squeezes his waist, steps closer even, looks so very ready to snap and take him wildly.

“Whatever you want.” The angel promises. “Just tell me, love, name it and it’s yours.”

_Anything. Everything._

He works the bow tie out of the way, he presses his fingers on the hot skin there; just to touch, just to ground himself.

“I want…” Aziraphale lands a kiss on the corner of his mouth. They’re undone by the passion, the both of them. And it’s still the middle of the day, the middle of the bookshop, the top of Aziraphale’s work desk. It feels surreal, it feels thrilling. “I want your tongue. _On me_. Right here.” Aziraphale gulps and he follows the movement of his throat. “Open me up, with tongue and fingers, those thick tender fingers you’ve been using to hold me still.” Every words is hotter than the last and Crowley’s starting to suspect they won’t last enough to see this fantasy of his through. Fuck it if he cares. “I want you to fill me, Aziraphale. All of me, every sense. You inside me, around me, on me. _Shit_.” His hips twist up and come into contact with Aziraphale’s stomach, the fabric of his beloved vest making him hiss. He’s aching.

“Keep going.” Aziraphale encourages him, speaking right on his ear, before biting his lobe.

“Take me here, or bend me over the desk, I don’t care, just— just have me. All of me. Please.”

Aziraphale grabs him by the cheeks and kisses him with longing, saying without saying how much he plans to do just what Crowley asked of him.

“There’s nothing I’d love more, to have you completely. As you have me.”

Crowley never sees the bookshop, and the desk in particular, the same way again, not once Aziraphale is finished with him after that long, long afternoon of pleasures.

  
  


**Dress me up, make it tight, I’m your dolly**

Aziraphale wakes him up with dedicated kisses on his cheek and neck, even his nose, one lands soundly on the shell of his ear and it’s ridiculously endearing. He blames the unguarded sappy smile on being half asleep still.

“Mmmh… mmorning, angel.” He mumbles and turns his face up so Aziraphale can properly kiss him on the lips.

Which he does, Crowley feels the indulgent smile against him.

“Happy anniversary, dearest.”

That makes him blink awake. “Yeah, happy. Which one is it today? Our first date, our first kiss, our first time, our _second_ first date?” He aims for mock offence but honestly, he can’t play it up even for the fun of it.

His angel is sitting by the edge of the bed, in his absurd tartan pyjama, he looks at him with amusement dancing in his eyes and smile, all soft cosy body.

Leaning down, another kiss lands on his nose.

“The first time I told you I love you in a non-sexual context.”

Oh boy.

“Nnh— fffsjss— _angel_.” Aziraphale is another of Crowley’s inarticulate sentences away from simply chuckling at him, all benevolent bastardly. “You can’t count those.” He protests weakly, and finds himself leaving the cocoon of blankets to surge forward and share more of those delicious early morning kisses.

“Pray tell why the ever not.” Aziraphale is teasing, hands on his mussed hair now.

“There’s just so many anniversaries to remember.” He says, like a lying liar, as if he doesn’t remember each and every instance this relationship with his angels has moved forward. Every day, every conversation. Crowley won’t ever forget, not when it comes to this.

“You don’t need to remember them, darling. I’ll do that for us, just be a sweetheart and consider the outfit I picked out for you for our dinner tonight?”

His eyebrows shoot upwards, surprised. “Posh restaurant?” And he lets himself be led back to bed, laying flat on his back, deliriously amazed at Aziraphale.

“Only the best for you.”

He scoots to the other end of the bed, making room for the angel. “You’re the one who eats the most, only the best for _you_.” Aziraphale giggles at being so openly called out. “I’ll dress however you want, how about that? I’ll even go naked if you want, so you can show me off.” He grins, pawing at whichever part of the other that’s closer.

“Oh dear.” Aziraphale exclaims in a hushed tone, playing coy, but with sincere lust starting to surface. “That won’t be necessary, I assure you. I do _not_ want others laying eyes on your body if I can help it.” The edge of possessiveness doesn’t go unnoticed by Crowley, he rejoices in it. “I simply came across a few pieces of clothing I think you’d look delectable in, more than usual that is. I’d love to see you wearing them, if you’d like.”

“Sure.” The smile now is genuine, curiosity like a pinprick at the back of his mind. “Now come back to bed with me?” He lifts the duvet invitingly. Aziraphale’s eyes take one look at him, all bare skin and desire. He does sleep naked, he truly isn’t trying to seduce the angel. But, okay, if it happens to seem that way, he isn’t particularly denying it. “Dinner, right?” The angel nods and stands up to undress. “Good. We have enough free time.” What for, he doesn’t clarify and to be quite honest, he doesn’t need to.

Aziraphale’s skin is warm against his, so soft, and damn, Crowley wishes he could drown in his partner’s lovely corporation. He’s gone native maybe, so much that he finds the human shape the angel wears incredibly attractive.

“Oh!” It’s barely a breathed out monosyllable of false shock. “You’re already… interested, I see.” He says and pets his side, gifting him a covetous smile.

Another thing that Crowley finds himself liking from going native and indulging his own corporation is how easily aroused the human body gets. He’s half hard from thinking of Aziraphale choosing clothes for him, claiming him and showing it to the world. He’s hot from thinking about Aziraphale actually having him naked in front of the human patrons on this new posh dinner place and showing _him_ off like some prized piece. Mostly, he’s interested because Aziraphale decided to wake him with kisses celebrating a silly anniversary and now is back in bed with him, hands heavy on him.

He plasters himself at his front, both on their sides, chest to chest, legs tangling with legs. Kisses unhurried and passionate, wet tongues and murmured gasps that never get to be complete words. Slow morning kisses, sweet and earnest. Crowley adores this, it feels like time stands still for them, hands roaming and caressing, mapping well-loved skin.

The sensation of having all the time in the world to re-explore and re-learn the same delicious body, the same muscles, the same moans, the passionate exhalations that sound like stuttered pet names. And Aziraphale has so many of them to call him, a complete battery, the next cuter than the last.

Crowley is a lousy demon, he’s made peace with that. So he wholeheartedly can abide all the pet names and sweet nothings whispered in the sacred breath they share with each kiss. He can knead the plumpness of his angel’s thighs, bite without any intention to hurt, move against him in seductive undulations of his hips, pressing their arousals together.

“Crowley, love, my love.” Aziraphale mumbles in a litany of feather-soft calls, more out of instinct than any real desire to convey any deep meaning.

Manicured hands grip his hair and neck, pressing tidy blunt nails against skin. And if Aziraphale happens to mark him during this mindless tryst, well, he’s getting harder at imagining wearing revealing clothes during dinner to showcase them. Staff and patrons trying their hardest to look away and stop the lustful thoughts the two of them inspire.

And Crowley wants more, so much more. The amazing part is that Aziraphale does too. So he throws the bed cover out of their way.

“Angel, be a darling and turn around for me, will you?” He prompts. It makes him blink, dazed as the angel was. “Please.” He tacks on swiftly, before thumbing a tempting nipple. “I’ll do what you want after, promise.”

Aziraphale sighs contently. “Regardless of your promises, I know you know how to take care of me.”

That’s it.

Thing is, as lame as a demon that he is, Crowley is a firm believer. He believes in Aziraphale, he believes in their love. He believes in this flame they light on together, the both of them finding the best way to try and become one entity.

He avoids the adoring gaze by leaning down and sucking the nipple into his mouth, using just a hint of teeth against taut pink skin.

A hand on the nape of his neck holds him there a moment longer, Aziraphale moaning a prolonged _hmmm_ as if tasting something devilishly delicious. “You always take such good care of me, Crowley.” The tone alone makes him spurt a few drops of clear liquid from the tip of his prick, excited beyond belief; it makes him bite down a bit more forcefully, enough for the hint of sharp canines to turn into a dangerous suggestion. Aziraphale’s hand finds hair to hold onto and pull, and breathlessly he adds: “And I adore it so much when you ask things of me, love.”

Oh.

Well.

Well, _yeah_.

Crowley doesn’t usually ask for things from Aziraphale. Actually, it goes the other way around most of the times, Crowley presses to know what he can do for his angel, what Aziraphale wants from him; Aziraphale’s wishes are Crowley’s demands to comply immediately.

However, the morning is so soft around the edges, desire fuzzy and buzzing all around with the bland sunlight that isn’t even warm yet. Aziraphale’s body is the warm one, Crowley can bask in it, burst into flames even.

He releases the bud with a wet _pop_ and it feels wrong to leave the other unattended so he decides to spare some more time in this lovely foreplay and tend to the other nipple. It feels much like proving Aziraphale right, he does know how to take good care of his angel. He’s elated to have this knowledge; the right pressure, the amount of praises, the depth and force behind the touches.

One last tiny bite, and a kiss over the breastbone, and he’s disentangling enough to help Aziraphale turn around. His back is gorgeous, his wide hips and thighs the kind of plump scenery to write the most lustful odes about. And damn it, if he ever sees Aziraphale naked and doesn’t feel the urge to _worship, now please, yes, all that skin_ —

The day that urge is gone, then he should be stoned to death.

It makes Crowley moan, almost in a pornographic way, and they haven’t really started yet. “I love your body, angel.” He simply must say it, in a whisper against a creamy shoulder, right above the remnant of an old sucking bruise. “I know it’s just a corporeal human-shaped body but you are incredibly tantalizing.” He takes no time melding his front to Aziraphale’s back, they both shiver at the wholesome contact. “And yes, I would love you in any body you decide to wear, or even no body at all.” His prick fits itself in the cleft between those delectable buttocks and he can’t help himself, he ruts into it like an animal in heat. “But just like this? You’re so beautiful.”

“I feel the same, darling.” Aziraphale encourages, muffled by the pillow as he buries his face into it and lets the pleasure wash over him.

Crowley doesn’t lack confidence on this regard, he _is_ an excellent tempter after all. Most of the time. He guesses. Anyway, Aziraphale is truly a cherubic angel, the representation painters have marvelled at, the fluffy white blond curls, the exciting body, the lovely clear eyes; he’s the most erotic sculpture made alive by the will of the Almighty Herself. And if Crowley, as a lousy demon, can appreciate some of Her work, it’s Aziraphale. He’s the perfect angel, the kindest bitchiest sweetest bastard known in this world. A positively wondrous thing.

Willing into existence a bottle of massage oil, he envisions this new situation as a future anniversary. Hopefully. Not sure exactly what Aziraphale would take out of it to make it an anniversary, it’s not like sex is a rare thing but the angel can be so surprising sometimes.

He hides his grin against a shoulder, happy and excited.

“Do you mind some mess?” He asks, loudly opening the little bottle.

And Aziraphale clicks his tongue in disapproval. The kind of disapproval that suggests Crowley will most definitely have to deal with the consequences. Like blowing away stains or saving books or making a play popular or keeping food warm and tasty. The kind of disapproval that Crowley has been fixing time and time again, the sound of an angel playing hard to get at least a tiny bit before pouting or giving his demon saddened eyes and then it’s all nice and dealt with and oh how amazing everything Crowley would do for his beloved angel.

“Depends on the mess, I suppose. And I think the end goal should be of import as well.”

Crowley chuckles and pours a generous amount of oil onto his hand. “You know exactly the end goal here, angel.” He teases and deliberately applies the slickness on Aziraphale’s extremely lovable inner thighs. The muscles there quiver slightly, being unprepared for the massage.

“Darling?”

Some more oil and he can’t help himself cupping Aziraphale’s testicles gently, earning a breathless sigh for his trouble. It’s a bad position to reach his prick without having Aziraphale lifting his leg, and he doesn’t need that right now so he barely teases the base of it with fingertips, a promise of fulfilment for later.

“I’m here.” He says and reclaims his hand, moving his hips away enough to use oil on his own anatomy. “You do know you can tell me at any moment that you dislike anything I’m doing, right?” It is a given, they’re still quite idiotic when it comes to communication, but in their intimacy? Yeah, they’ll try their best to make it all pleasurable and agreeable and easy to communicate. It has gone that way so far, so he’s confident. Yet, he’s always ready to reassure his angel.

Aziraphale gives a soft laugh, all fond and mild. “I do know. Don’t worry, I just… It took me by surprise.” He comments honestly. “Oh Crowley, I can’t even recall a time you did something I disliked. So… show me what you want from me?”

 _Everything_ , he thinks. He wants everything, every little thing Aziraphale will give or allow him to have, he wants. Anything and everything, he wants.

Instead of replying, he positions himself, penis in hand and swiftly finds the perfect spot between perfectly oiled thick thighs and it is— he doesn’t have words for most of these feelings. It’s divine, perhaps. And Aziraphale lets out a tiny surprised _oh!_ that’s so very precious. They fit like puzzle pieces, he moves slowly, trying to keep track of every sensation, smooth skin, wet sounds, the bumping of his prick against Aziraphale’s testicles and the base of him and that’s all just glorious.

“Can you—? Ah, angel, will you please—?” Somehow, Aziraphale understands, and with a throaty showy moan, he presses his own thighs together some more. “ _Fuck_.”

It makes Aziraphale give a broken-winded chuckle. “Why yes, indeed, love.”

Breath gone from his lungs, Crowley utters some incoherency full of consonants and not one vowel into it. Bites a shoulder, kneads what might have been called love handles (and what a curious name! He wonders absently if Aziraphale ever had anything to do with the appreciation for fuller bodies through human history.), picks up the pace as best as he can in this position, both side by side.

He wants to melt, it’s hot and he wants to melt into Aziraphale, be part of him forever – find residence in his heart, or his stomach; the closer to those tempting hips the better, he thinks.

Long thrusts, slick plenty. It’s paradise. Crowley thought he could go slow attune with lazy morning sex but right now it seems impossible, his angel’s body feels so good, he goes faster and faster as his own libido asks of him, Aziraphale offering a nice soundtrack of sighs and almost moans.

“Fuckfuckfa—close!” He manages to pull the warning out of breathless vocal cords, as if Aziraphale was expecting him to not climax. A hand, miraculously oily, enters the equation, teasing him as the tip of his erection peeks from between soft thighs. “Ah! Ahhhaahanngel!” It could be a whine too embarrassing, if he could give a fuck about being embarrassed right at this moment.

“Love, yes. Go on then. It’s so beautiful when you take your pleasure from me, I am in awe.”

That’s the last straw. The dirty talk Aziraphale executes is elegant and meaningful, it destroys Crowley absolutely.

He pulls away and strokes himself in a tight fist, another shocked little _oh!_ preceding Aziraphale turning around at the exact moment Crowley is coming, ropes of pearly liquid land on the bed, on Crowley’s and Aziraphale’s middles. _God_. Panting hard, Crowley plops down fully onto his back, hand moving just enough to let go of his member before over-sensitivity works him up and carelessly wiping the excess of oil on the bed sheet.

Aziraphale has a dopey, lustful smile; Crowley might as well have the same expression, if he only would be able to feel any muscle or bone in his body. He just feels like a giant mass of goo and love and satisfaction.

“So good, my dearest.” His angel praises him, petting his hair with a clean hand.

He’s sweaty and his hair is a complete disaster, but having Aziraphale playing with it always feels excellent so he doesn’t protest. He minutely nods, confirming that it was _so_ good.

Looming over him, the light frames Aziraphale in such a way that if he weren’t a demon already in the possession of such knowledge, he would truly be having an epiphany by now about Aziraphale legitimately being an Angel of the Lord.

“You’re gorgeous.” He mumbles, loose and a bit out of sorts still.

“Thank you. So are you.” And then, he’s leaning down and kissing him, robbing him of the opportunity to regain his breathing. Crowley doesn’t mind.

When he’s finally able to control his limbs again, he embraces his angel, more kisses being shared. Aziraphale finds himself settling on his lap, straddling him.

“Was that okay, angel?” He tests, hands cupping his face.

Aziraphale, of course, nods. “Yes, darling. It was very… exciting, I must confess.”

Crowley gulps, not knowing what to do with that. “What do you want?” He prompts then. “What can I do for you?”

The angel looks around, as if searching for inspiration, and locates the forgotten bottle. “Oh.” And he purses his lips, a coy look at Crowley’s face not a second later has gears turning inside the demon’s head. He hands Crowley the bottle and placidly, as if simply ordering a delicious dessert in a cute little restaurant, he says: “Use your fingers, please.”

Honestly, Aziraphale could break Crowley, render him useless for the rest of his life, with just the things he says, the way he says it. The attempt at innocence in his blown eyes contradicting the filthy things he asks for. And there’s no denying him, Crowley doesn’t want to deny him, why would he? If pleasuring Aziraphale is the culmination of everything Crowley has ever wanted out of his existence.

“’Course.” He rushes to accept, a pleased smile blossoming on his angel’s face.

Truth is, Aziraphale is really aroused. A finger dips inside him to the first knuckle easily and Crowley marvels at it, at the sound right out of the angel’s throat. He’s hot as hellfire inside, and a part of Crowley wonders if he could freeze the time like this, him inside, the hot core of Aziraphale near burning him, the pleasure the angel feels clear on his face. It’s ridiculous but oh how he _wants_.

Before he can suggest another digit, his angel is already moving, fucking himself and grabbing his member; a wanton moan that could be Crowley’s name escaping that sinfully perfect mouth.

“More, dear.” He says in a breathless whine.

If he were a better entity, Crowley would tease, he’d do more. As it is, he’s so smitten. He gives Aziraphale another finger, wasting not time in finding his prostate, and grabbing him by the hair, he pulls him down for an open-mouthed kiss. Tongue and teeth and saliva and sounds that could belong in an amateur porn film.

“You’re a vision.” Crowley manages to utter, lips half against Aziraphale’s cheek and half upon his lips. The reaction it gets is magnificent, the muscles gripping his fingers and the hand on Aziraphale’s prick accelerating.

“Please go on.” Because luckily, the angel is all for instant gratification.

Neither of them is the hypothetical better entity.

“You’re what Heaven should be made of.” And his voice is husky, as if he’s getting himself off as much as his angel. He presses that bundle of nerves incessantly and Aziraphale nearly howls, his own hand moving in a punishing pace. “All heat and hazy pleasure. You truly are a vision, gorgeous, gorgeous, _gorgeous_.”

And it is a tortuous game, being stimulated so fiercely by both ends. His hips can’t decide where to go. There’s only one logical conclusion and it comes as no surprise at all.

“Oh! Crowley!”

Not a second later, he’s crashing into Crowley’s chest, completely exhausted and thoroughly content, breathing harshly through a smiling mouth.

Removing his fingers, Crowley finds himself enchanted once again with this debauched angel. “Was it good?” He mumbles against the angelic curls tickling his nose.

A fond chuckle. “Very much so.” Lifting his face, he gifts him with a cute kiss on his cheek. And then wrinkling his nose. “Ah but you were right. This _was_ messy.”

Crowley rolls his eyes, completely unimpressed.

Though the angel has a point, besides their fluids there’s also the issue with the oil dirtying them and the sheets. Oh well, totally worth it if you ask him.

Sighing he nods. “You go prepare a bath for us, fill the tub yeah? And I’ll clean here, sounds like a deal?”

It makes Aziraphale wiggle delightedly, he certainly loves his human’s comforts. Also, he loves leaving the heavy work to Crowley, let’s be honest here.

“Deal.” He sing-songs and plants another kiss on Crowley. This time, a lot less chaste and right on his lips.

A promise. The bath is going to be fun.

“Happy anniversary.” Aziraphale calls, almost sauntering out of the bedroom. A wink and the movement of that delectable body the kind of temptation that even a demon takes ages to perfect.

Of course Crowley will clean here. And will use his fingers or mouth or anything the angel wants.

Of course he’s going to celebrate every anniversary the angel comes up with, wearing the clothes he has picked for him, and then wearing nothing at all to worship his very own personal angel.

There’s no doubt. Crowley will do anything and everything for Aziraphale.

The incredible thing is that Aziraphale feels the exact same way.

**Author's Note:**

> This got longer than I expected, I’ll tell you that. Look, I’m not saying I wrote most of it at work but I’m also not not saying I wrote most of this at work, reach your own conclusion guys. And I’ve been having so much trouble finishing it but here it is now! Praise the fanfiction Goddess!
> 
> Anyway, if you got this far, thanks for reading :D


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